The Last Friday Piece From Port Brokeferry

(Next week I am off to an Arts Festival to deliver five events over three days... my head is spinning at the thought. Here's the final Friday piece from PB... then just Saturday and Sunday to complete the project.)

ONCE MORE ROUND THE GREEN

Athol Stuart walked once more round the green. It was late and he was tired. He picked up two empty beer bottles and dropped them into a bin. There were lights on in some of the trailers, but mostly it was dark and only the faintest sound of music coming from somewhere, maybe a radio playing.

The night had gone off peacefully enough, he thought. No drunk Dodie Bredwell to quieten and no Lachlan Davie either. Martin had reported that Lachlan had gone home early and he’d walked straight and with his head down. There was no report on Dodie, though Athol Stuart had seen him leave ‘The Ship’ with Alice Greyling, walking together and no space between them. He’d noted the raised eyebrows of men at the bar. Dodie and Alice – it made sense only now that he thought about it.

Berlie’s had shut on time and the crowds had been quick to clear. He’d seen Grace and that boy Kelso standing together, like they were dancing, her head on his shoulder and a boy and a girl holding onto each other.

‘There’s no need for you to worry, Mr Stuart,’ Grace had said. Didn’t stop him worrying though. He watched them kiss and then she broke from him and walked back along the street, looking over shoulder every few steps to see if he was still there and still looking. The boy did not go into his trailer until Grace had gone into her house.

Once around the green, then to the end of the street and back, and all being well he’d turn in, he thought. It would be a busier day tomorrow. There had been some new arrivals in Port Brokeferry and more were expected on the Saturday. Most of the cottages at the front had filled up and Struan Courtald had said the hotel was busy, and he’d rubbed his hands when he’d said it.

Busy at ‘The Bobbing Boat’, too. Athol Stuart had seen the tables outside the café fill up even though the day was dull and a cool wind had lifted off the sea. People in coats, determined to be in the open air, sat hunched over cups of hot chocolate, wearing smiles that might have been described as stubborn. Eileen was rushed off her feet, he had seen that. And Guthrie, too. There was a visitor to the village that Athol Stuart thought he recognised, someone from way back, maybe. She was with Guthrie at the end of the day, the lights out in ‘The Bobbing Boat’ and the tables and chairs cleared into the shop. He wondered if that meant anything.

He passed old Tom’s house and went in to check on the door. It was locked. He looked across at Lillian’s. The house was in darkness. He took from that there had been no news. ‘No news is good news,’ he said to himself, though he did not always believe that was true.

At ‘The Ship’ end of the street everything was quiet. As quiet as it ever is with the wind rattling the cables on the boats, making a sound like small bells always ringing, and the sea shushing and shushing and Athol Stuart’s slow steps as he turned and made his way back.

He saw ahead a dark figure coming towards him, weaving a crooked path, moving into the brighter yellow pools of the streetlights and then moving out of them again. His shirt was not tucked into his trousers and he was carrying his shoes like he didn’t want to make a sound. Athol Stuart stopped. He watched the man turn into one of the cottages, watched him searching his pockets until he found his keys. Then he waited for the man to go inside. It was Kyle Downs and Athol Stuart knew there was trouble there. He shook his head and thought it was a shame for Susan Downs and a shame for her daughter, Corinne.

Athol Stuart stopped outside Martin's house. He leaned towards the door and he listened. Everything was as it should be, so he turned into his own house and left the street behind him.